Vignettes of Steele: Laura
by RSteele82
Summary: (Vignettes Series) These short stories, 1500 words or less, are short glimpses of Laura's childhood through the early days of the appearance of the man who would become Remington Steele. They provide a backdrop of how she became the woman we know - strengths and weaknesses - with the earlier years providing insight into the struggles she faces during Holting Back (Canon).
1. February 1960 - Age 4

**_A/N: In what has become a tradition, a holiday gift for my readers. Thank you for your ongoing support and encouragement._**

 ** _A glimpse of Laura, from childhood until those first days after the man who would become Remington Steele stepped into her life._**

 ** _These stories go hand-in-hand, most tellingly, with Holting Back in the Canon series, and go far to explain Laura's struggles with her father's reappearance._**

 ** _Each 'chapter' or story in this series is 1500 words or less: Brief and hopefully enjoyable... as well as revealing._**

 ** _From 12/8 through 1/1, I will be adding a Vignette story every few days. After that, as they strike me._**

 ** _I hope you enjoy!_**

 ** _And far more importantly - I hope this holiday season finds you each happy and well, and will provide you many happy memories for the years ahead._**

 ** _RSteele82_**

* * *

 _February 1960 - Age 4_

The small girl with curly auburn hair and large, expressive brown eyes walked into the living room, with puddles of tears brimming as she sniffled unhappily. Dragging her feet, she approached a scratchy, tan-plaid, woven arm chair, then stilled to stare up at the handsome, auburn-haired man in his early thirties. Jack had heard the commotion coming from upstairs and wasn't surprised by the appearance of his youngest daughter, in fact, had anticipated it.

"Hey, pumkin', why the long face?" Four-year-old Laura Holt rested her chin on the arm rest and while she stared up at him, miserably, the first drop of wetness trickled past her lashes.

"Mother says I'm selfish cuz I don't wanna go to high tea," she sniffled. With an empathetic smile, Jack turned slightly in his chair to pluck his petite daughter up and settle her in his lap.

"You don't want to get all dressed up in your Sunday best like Mommy and Frannie?" Her lip quivered as another tear fell. Hanging her head, she shook it.

"No," she whispered, fearful he, too, would dub her 'selfish.' He laughed silently, unseen. His youngest daughter knew her own mind.

"I'll tell you a secret," he offered. She swiped at a tear with a fisted hand and looked up at him. Bending his head down, he whispered conspiratorially into her ear "I wouldn't want to either." She knuckled away another tear and looked up at him, hopefully.

"Laura Elizabeth Holt, you are ruining your sister's special treat with this attitude," Abigail accused as she entered the room. Laura hung her head at the sharp admonishment, tears slipping past her lashes again. "Now, dry your tears up and get back to your room so we can find you an appropriate dress for tomorrow."

"Uh, Abby," Jack stepped in, "I know Frannie enjoys dressing up, but don't you think something simple would be more appropriate for the circus?" Laura's head jerked up as she stared at her father.

"The circus?!" She'd always wanted to go to the circus. She's seen pictures. Images of red and white tents, elephants and tigers, and people flying through the air danced in her head.

"What in Heaven's name are you talking about? _The circus?_ " Abigail said the two words with disdain. "The girls and I are going to high tea. It's all Frances has spoken of for a week!" Laura's face fell, crestfallen. Jack patted her reassuringly on the knee.

"And I told you a month ago the circus was in town and I thought it would be a nice family outing," he countered. Abigail looked back over her shoulder towards the stairwell that led up to the bedrooms.

"Frances will be so disappointed," Abigail replied, mournfully. She was not a woman who would question her husband's decision. If he said they were going to the circus, the circus it would be.

"Well, I'd hate for her to be upset," he feigned consideration. In truth, while the circus was in town, after the way Abigail had acted when he'd mentioned taking the family, he hadn't bought the tickets. "I tell you what, you and Frances go on and do that tea thing and I'll take Laura with me to the circus, that way everyone is happy." An obedient wife Abigail might be, but a pushover she was not. Critical eyes moved from father to daughter, then back to the father again. She was fairly certain she'd just been bamboozled and this was just another case of Jack letting Laura get her way. But, to call him on that was to risk the entire family going to the circus…

"Very well. Laura, you're excused from tea," she informed her youngest, begrudgingly. "It's probably all for the better, as you'd just ruin it for Frances given that attitude." Laura reared back as though she'd been struck, and scowling at Abigail, Jack gathered his small daughter close.

"That's enough, Abigail," he retorted, coolly. "Frances gets her tea, which you'll enjoy." Abigail's chin ticked up a notch.

"We will." With those words she spun on her heel and strode from the room. Jack gave Laura a hug, before picking her up and turning her on his lap. He tweaked her nose, playfully.

"Don't let your mother upset you. She means well," he smiled. "Now, how would you like to watch my favorite television show with me?

"Just you and me?" she asked, the first smile of the evening appearing on her face.

"Just you and me," he confirmed. "Up you go." Setting her on her feet, he crossed the room to the television set, turned it on, fiddled with the antenna and when the picture was just right, returned to his chair and scooped her back up in his lap."This is called Atomic Man."

"Tom Mix Man," she repeated. He laughed warmly.

"That's right, Tom Mix Man. Now, be quiet and watch the show."

Happily, Laura snuggled into the crook of her father's arm. Utterly content - ensconced in her father's warm embrace and surrounded by the spicy scent of his aftershave - and enraptured by the super hero in the funny outfit who was determined to save the day, when the world was once again safe and the credits began to roll, she turned to her father.

"Again! Again!" she insisted, bouncing on his lap and clapping her hands in her excitement.

"I'm afraid we'll have to wait until next week, pumkin'. It's all over for tonight." She promptly burst in tears.

"I wanna watch Tom Mix Man," she pleaded. Standing with his small, crying daughter in his arms, Jack turned off the television set and turned towards the stairs that would take them upstairs.

"It's time past your bedtime, Laura," he told her, as he began the climb up the stairs. "Would you feel better if I promised you and I will watch Tom Mix Man together every week? Just you and me?" She lifted her tear streaked face to peer at him.

"Just you and me?"

"Just you and me," he vowed, as he sat her on her feet in her bedroom. "Time for your prayers." Still sniffling, Laura dutifully got down on her knees, rested her elbows on the bed, steepled her hands together and began.

"God in heaven, hear my prayer. Keep me in thy loving care. Be my guide in all I do. Bless all those who love me too." She paused for a moment, then quickly added, "And Tom Mix Man, too. Amen." Prayers finished, she shed her bathrobe and scrambled into bed.

"Is Mother going to tuck me in?" Jack looked towards the doorway of the room. He knew there was no way his wife, in a snit as she was, would be in that evening.

"I'm not good enough?" he teased. "I'm a master tucker-in-er." As she giggled he tucked the blankets around her firmly then bent down to kiss her on her forehead. "Pleasant dreams, pumkin'." Straightening, he walked to the doorway and turned out the light.

"Daddy?" her small voice came from the now dim room.

"Yes, Laura?"

"I wanna be like Tom Mix Man when I'm growed up." Her father nodded his head, thoughtfully.

"You can be anything you want to be. Don't let anyone tell you different."

With those parting words, he closed the door until only a sliver of light filtered into the room from the small crack in the door.

Rolling to her side and closing her eyes, visions of Atomic Man and the circus lulled her to sleep.


	2. February 1960 - Age 4 (Part 2)

_February 1960_

"So, pumpkin, what did you think about the circus?" Jack wondered, as he walked hand-in-hand with his four-year-old daughter along Venice Pier.

"I wanna fly!" Laura declared, her brown eyes sparkling with happiness as she skipped along beside him while hugging a banded scroll of paper to her chest. She'd been captivated by the trapeze act, drawn to the daring elegance of the aerial stunts and the costumes, bedazzled with crystals, had only added to the magic of it all.

"Well, if that's what you want, I'm sure you will. You can do anything you want to do," he told her, smiling down at her.

"And the candy!" she thought to add. She'd been thoroughly enamored with the bright colored spun sugar confections on a paper funnel, its sweetness and the way it would melt on her tongue. They'd shared three full servings of the treat, and she'd gleefully indulged.

"I'd almost forgotten about the cotton candy," he mused, thoughtfully. "Let's keep that between you and me. Your mother will be every angry with me if she finds out I've filled you up with sugar all afternoon."

"Like a secret?" she asked, wide-eyed. She'd never been asked to keep a secret before.

"Just like a secret," he confirmed. She nodded solemnly.

"I can keep a secret," she vowed, with an intensity most four-year-olds couldn't muster. He laughed freely, as he reached down and grasping her under the arms, swung her up to sit on his shoulders. The motion and her sudden height reminded her of another favored experience that day. "And the fair wheel!" she giggled.

"Ferris wheel," he corrected. "They are an amazing invention, aren't they?" he agreed. "Why don't we find you something real to eat?" he suggested, then with a look around the pier, added ruefully, "Or at least something your mother might think qualifies as a meal."

They ate hot dog and French fries, washed down by a cool carton of milk, which had been far harder to scrounge up on the pier than he'd even imagined. After their meal, they walked to the end of the fishing pier, where he sat her on the railing, an arm around her waist holding her secure. He pointed a finger at the endless view of the Pacific Ocean.

"As big as Los Angeles might seem to you now, Laura, there's a whole world out there that is far, far bigger," he told her thoughtfully. "A world filled dreams and endless possibilities."

"And circuses?" she asked, squinting at the horizon, looking for the world he was speaking of. He laughed loudly and gave her a firm hug.

"And circuses," he confirmed, then grew serious. "I want you to promise me something, Laura. You know what a promise is right?" She thought hard, and then it came to her.

"Like when I promise to clean my room?"

"Yes, just like that," he agreed. "I want you to remember you can be anything you want to be, whether it's a ballerina or trapeze artist or super hero. Your entire life, you'll be told all the reasons you can't do something. I want you to promise me you'll never let go of your dreams, just because people say something can't be done. I want you to remember, you can go anywhere, do anything you dream of as long as you put your mind to it. Will you promise me that?" She tilted her head to the side as she continued to stare at the horizon. They were big thoughts a father had given to his little girl, and she wasn't quite sure what any of it meant. What caught and held her attention was the serious tone of his voice when he spoke. Whatever it all meant, it seemed very important to him, and she wanted nothing more than to please her Daddy, so she vowed..

"I promise, Daddy."

"That's my girl," he praised, giving her another hug.

Father and daughter remained at the end of the pier for a long time, she studying the horizon and he ruminating on the many dreams he'd once had that had turned to ashes because he'd done what had been expected of him. Her loud yawn drew him from his morose thoughts. Plucking her off the railing, he turned her around and carried her down the peer, as her small arms snaked around his neck and shoulder, holding firm. Resting her head on his shoulder, she dozed.

It was, he thought to himself, moments like these that kept him going from one day to the next. He'd stopped dreaming long ago, the relentless pressure of what was 'right' and 'expected' breaking his spirit, making him conform. He'd resigned himself to the fact the little moments in life would have to be enough. He hoped with all his heart the sleeping daughter he held in his arms would never settle for simply 'enough,' but would instead settle for nothing less than her dreams.

That evening, Jack taped with care that scroll a paper upon Laura's bedroom wall, in hope that her treasured poster of the Flying Corderos would serve as a reminder to always keep dreaming.


	3. October 1961 - 5 years old

_October 1961_

"I'm done, Mother," Laura announced, closing her spelling workbook decisively. Abigail looked up from the button she was sewing onto one of Jack's dress shirts.

"That's nice, dear. Then pack your books and go make certain all your things have been put in their place," her mother instructed. "Your father will be home shortly, and you know how he likes a tidy home." Laura's face lit up with joy at the mention of her father.

Tonight was, after all, her most favorite night of the week, the night she had to wait a whole seven days before it came again. And this time? Well, she'd had to wait a whole fourteen days this time as her father had been out of town on business last week.

Laura returned her workbooks and pencil case to her satchel, then made certain it sat neatly on the bench near the front door, just as her mother preferred. A careful inspection of living and dining rooms confirmed she'd not abandoned a belonging in either room. Assigned duty complete, she rushed upstairs to her bedroom. She'd discovered if she prepared for bed before her special time with her father that he'd tuck her into bed afterwards…

Which was the best part of her very favorite night of the week.

Teeth brushed, face and hands washed, curls combed and nightgown and robe on, Laura raced back downstairs, where she kept vigil kneeling on the couch and staring out the bay window to the street beyond, watching for that first glimpse of headlights that might belong to her Daddy's car.

She made it nearly a whole ten minutes before bounding down off the couch and running into the kitchen. She planted elbow on the armrest of Abigail's chair and rested her chin on a knuckled hand.

"Stand up straight, Laura," Abigail admonished. Laura dutifully corrected her posture.

"When will Daddy be home?" she inquired.

"Anytime now," was the vague reply, "And he doesn't need you nagging him the minute he walks through the door. Now, go and find something to do."

"Yes, Mother," she obediently replied, then slunk back to the living room and resumed her post.

She tried to be patient. She really did. But fifteen minutes later she was back in the kitchen where Abigail was nursing a glass of tea and browsing copy of _Good Housekeeping._

"Will it be too much longer?" she worried. With a sigh, Abigail looked up at the kitchen clock, then returned her eyes to her magazine.

"That silly television show the two of you watch won't be on for another ten minutes," she advised. "We'll just have to hope for the best." Laura's small shoulders slumped when she didn't receive the assurance she was seeking.

"Yes, Mother," she repeated the familiar refrain, then returned to that couch and that window to stare at the dark and empty street.

In the room beyond, the telephone rang. It wasn't until her mother's voice rose and could be clearly heard that Laura turned her head towards the adjacent room and paid attention to her mother's side of the conversation.

"Jack, at least have the decency not to insult my intelligence… You're an accountant, not a lawyer or doctor and all these late night-…. It's not a reflection on how I view your profession. An accountant is a perfectly respectable-…. Well, what am I supposed to do about Laura? You know how she gets… Of course, I'll take care of it, I always do… Good bye, Jack."

Laura's lip was already quivering, her eyes pooled with dampness, when her mother walked into the room.

"Your father has to work late, Laura," Abigail announced unceremoniously. Seeing her daughter's heartbroken countenance, she turned her head away and walked towards the television set. "I won't be having any of your histrionics, Laura, so dry those tears. You're not the only one disappointed."

"Yes, Mother," Laura answered, as expected, while swiping away her tears and trying her best to stop them.

"Your father said to let you watch that silly Atom Man—"

"Tom Mix Man," Laura corrected, meekly. Abigail's face pinched with displeasure and she cast a censorious look upon her young child.

"You know how I feel about children correcting adults, Laura," she admonished.

"I'm sorry, Mother," Laura apologized around that same quivering lip.

"Now, watch your show, then go to bed," Abigail instructed once she'd adjusted the rabbit ears for a clear picture. With those final words, she left the room.

Laura left the couch, and climbed up in her father's chair curling up in a ball in the corner of it. She closed her eye and in silence let the tears of her disappointment fall freely, burying her face in the fabric of the chair lest her mother hear. It was then, on an inhale, that her nose caught the scent of her father's spicy aftershave. The familiar smell provided some small comfort, and she nuzzled as tightly as she could into the corner of the chair, pretending the back and arm rest were her father' arms, then, forcing her tears back, settled in to watch their show… alone.


	4. June 1962 - 6 years old

_June 1962 - 6 years old_

Jack Holt weaved his car carefully through the throngs of children filling the street on the beautiful early Saturday afternoon. As he neared his house, his eyes flickered to the stoop at the top of the short flight of stairs in front of the house, where his youngest daughter sat with elbows on knees and her chin leaning into the palms of her hands. The defeated slope of her shoulders told the tale as well as any words could.

"Abby, what have you done now?" he muttered to himself as he pulled the car into the drive. A mid-morning tennis match with a friend had been just what he'd needed to relax after a busy week at the office and a tense week at home. As he climbed out of the car then crossed the driveway and jog upped the short flight of stairs, he wondered if it was really too much to ask to come home to peace. He sat down on the stoop next to Laura then mimicked her position, while staring at the street filled with children.

"What's go you down in the dumps, punkin'?" he asked after a minute had ticked by and she'd remained silent. She heaved a distress-laced sigh.

"Christopher and Mikey said only babies don't have bikes," she answered, forlornly, before a bit of temper had her sitting up straight. "I told them I'm not a baby, I just don't have a bike, but if I did I could ride it as good as them, even better." She slumped over and returned her chin to her hands. "They said they don't play with babies and that I should go play with _Vicky and Mimi_." She uttered the two names with a good deal of disgust in her voice. Vicky and Mimi were not only five, while she was six-and-a- _half_ , but all they ever wanted to do was play Barbies or push their dolls around in their carriages.

"I don't recall you ever saying anything about wanting a bike," he pondered aloud, drawing another sigh from his daughter.

"I asked Mother if I could get a bike for my birthday and she said it is un… un…" she gave up when she couldn't recall the right word, "She girls don't ride bikes." Jack rolled his eyes and shook his head. _Of course, she had._ Abigail lived and raised her children as though she was still living amongst Connecticut society while he was constantly trying to get her to relax and embrace the Los Angeles lifestyle.

"Wait here, punkin', I'll be back in just a minute."

"Alright," she sighed again, as Jack stood and opened the front door.

"Abby?" he called out for her, as he entered the house.

"In the kitchen with Frances," Laura heard her mother answer.

She resumed her forlorn vigil on the stoop, sticking out her tongue out at Christopher and Mikey when she caught them looking at her, then glared when they laughed at her in answer.

"Who wants to play with stupid boys anyway?" she shouted at them. That they laughed again made her want to… to… to do something _mean._ She turned her head when the door behind her opened.

"Alright, punkin', let's go," Jack ordered. She tilted her head back and looked up at her father.

"Where are we going?" she wondered.

"It's a surprise," he announced. She jumped to her feet, a wide smile lighting her face.

"A surprise for me?"

"You bet. Now, go get in the car."

"Okay, Daddy!" she exclaimed, excitedly, then raced to the car as fast as her small legs could carry her.

* * *

"You're doing great, punkin'!" Jack called his praise.

Laura would have smiled wider if she'd been able, but it simply wasn't possible. She hadn't stopped smiling since her father had pulled the car up in front of the bike store. Her father hadn't made her get some stupid girl bike in pink or robin's egg blue, either. No, he'd let her pick out whatever bike she wanted as long as it was the right size for her to ride and she'd chosen the newest model _boy's_ Schwinn the store sold: The Skipper coaster bike in bright red with shiny chrome fenders and a matching chrome headlight that her father had added after she'd declared…

"But I don't wanna bell! Christopher and Mike have _lights_ so they can ride at night!"

Now, those two boys who'd been making fun of her only three short hours before were standing with their legs on either side of their bikes staring with admiration at _her_ bike, as she executed a slightly wobbly turn.

"Great job, Laura. You'll be an old pro in no time!" Jack cheered her on.

"Hey, Laura," Christopher called. "Is that the new Skipper?"

"Yep!" she called proudly.

"Man, that's choice!" Mikey congratulated.

"I know!"

"You wanna go riding?" Christopher invited. Laura looked to her father for permission, narrowly missing the curb.

"Go ahead," he waved her off. "Dinner's in an hour. Be back on time!"

"I will," she shouted back, then pumping her little legs as hard as she could, she took off in pursuit of the boys.

* * *

Laura was back at the house for dinner before anyone had to call her. She wanted time to clean her bike before putting it in the garage for the night. With one of her father's shop towels, she wiped off the dust from the paths in the park, then rubbed the chrome until it shined again.

"Laura!" she heard her mother call from the front of the house. Dropping the towel on her father's work bench, she ran out the open garage door.

"I'm right here, Mother," she announced as she ran across the driveway then sprinted up the stairs.

"Laura," her mother gasped, "What happened to you?" Laura came to a stop and looked down at herself. Oh. She'd forgotten all about it.

"I crashed," she answered simply, then grasping the cloth of her shirt pulled it away from her body so Abigail could inspect it. "But I made sure I didn't get any blood on my clothes," she boasted, proudly. "See?" Abigail was rendered momentarily speechless.

"Straight to the bathroom, young lady," she ordered, opening the front door and holding it for her youngest child, then following her into the house. "Jack!" she yelled, then repeated again, a little louder, "Jack!"

"What is it, Abby?" Jack answered, sticking his head out of his den at the back of the house.

"Look what's happened to Laura!" she accused, waving her hand in the general direction of the staircase. "Look at her! I told, you… _I told you_ … little girls shouldn't be riding bicycles and now she's hurt." Concern blanketed his face, and he strode quickly down the hallway. Finding the living room empty, he looked to Abigail.

"Where is she?" he demanded.

"I sent her upstairs to the bathroom," Abigail replied with aother wave towards the stairs. Before she'd finished speaking, Jack was bounding up the stairs two at a time.

"Laura?" he called out, before he reached the bathroom.

"Yes, Daddy?" He stepped into the bathroom and found her perched on the side of the tub, waiting on her mother.

"Are you alright, punkin'?" He asked as he sunk down to one knee before her.

"I scraped my knee…" she held up her leg, proudly, "…and my hands..." she shoved them towards him, nearly knocking him in the nose "….and I didn't cry. Not once! I didn't even get blood on my clothes."

"Just look at her, Jack!" Abigail ordered from behind his back as she walked into the bathroom. "First thing tomorrow, you're taking the bike back."

"My bike!" Laura cried out, her face crumpling, those tears that hadn't come after she'd taken her spill threatening now.

"No, I'm not," Jack countered, firmly. "It's a few scrapes, Abby. Bruises, scrapes, cuts, dirty clothes, it's all part of childhood."

"For boys, not girls," Abigail sniffed, derisively. Jack looked towards the bathroom door and pretended to sniff at the air.

"Do you have something on the stove?" he asked. "I swear I smell something burning." Abigail pressed her hands against her cheek in dismay.

"The sauce!"

"You'd better go see to it," he suggested. "I'll take care of Laura. We'll get these scrapes cleaned up and some mercurochrome on them, and she'll be as good as new. Won't you, champ?" he asked giving her braid a fond tug.

It was on this day that her father's permanent nickname was born. A nickname that followed her until the day he walked out the door…


	5. August 1962 - 6 years old

_August 1962 – 6 years old_

Laura walked into the kitchen of her Grandmother Olivia's house and watched as the older woman moved the sugar, flour and coffee canisters, then slid them right back into position before picking up the toaster and looking under it.

"Whatcha doing, Grandma?" she asked, her curiosity tickled. Her grandmother had gone through the living room only a little while before, picking up magazines, putting them right back down, taking cushions off the couch then returning them. It was very curious behavior for her grandmother.

"I've misplaced my great-grandmother's ring, I'm afraid," her grandmother fretted. "You know the one I wear on this finger? Gold with the square top?" Laura nodded her head acknowledging that she knew the ring her grandmother was speaking of.

"Can I help?" she offered. Olivia paused in her search, to regard her.

"I tell you what, if you find the ring, I'll give you a quarter." Laura's face lit up. In her eyes, searching for the ring was like the mysteries she'd been reading about in _The Bobbsey Twins_ books her grandmother had given her the last time she visited. She could have an adventure _and_ get paid?

"I'll find it, Grandma," she pledged then ran out of the kitchen.

In the dining room, she opened drawers in the china cabinet, peered through its glass fronted windows, searched by the plants that sat on pedestals in two corners of the room and examined the windowsill. Getting down on all fours, she crawled around the room looking under the dining table and china hutch, then inspected every inch of the area rug beneath dining table. When she came up empty handed, she was undeterred and moved her hunt to the living room.

Drawers in the entryway table and end tables yielded nothing, similarly the floors beneath furniture or behind drapes. Much like in the dining room, window sills and area rugs were closely inspected. Couch and chairs were searched thoroughly. Shoving the cushion back onto the chair, she rocked back to sit on her heels and looked around the room, prepared to give up on this room and move on to the next. She started to stand when her eyes fell on the black container sitting on the end table. She wasn't sure exactly what it was, but remembered it smelled really bad when her grandmother had opened it. Walking to the table, she held the container in one hand and turned the lid with the other. She shriveled her nose when the pungent smell assailed her senses, then made herself peer inside. Quickly closing the container, she ran to the kitchen with it in hand.

"I found it, Grandma. I found your ring," she shared, excitedly. "It's in here."

"Oh, my," her grandmother drew out her words in surprise, "I'd completely forgotten I was cleaning the ring when the phone rang." She took the container from Laura and walked towards the kitchen sink. "There are days I swear I wouldn't remember my own name if not for my license," she laughed, removing the ring from the jewelry cleaner fluid and drying it with a cloth. Setting it aside, she closed the container then washed her hands. Once dry, she picked up the ring and crossed the room to sit down at the kitchen table. "Come. Sit with me," she requested, holding out her arms, "And I'll tell you a story about this old ring."

"A story?" Laura asked, as she climbed up into her grandmother's lap. "Like _The Bobbsey Twins_?" Her grandmother laughed softly, and hugging Laura, rocked her briefly.

"Not exactly, although the Bobbsey twins are family and this is a story about family," Olivia offered, then pondered where to begin. "A long, long time ago, when my great-grandmother was just a little girl, families were often very, very big."

"How big?" Laura wondered.

"Well, your Mother and Daddy have two children – you and Frances. Your Grandpa and I have one child, your Daddy. And _my_ parents had four children: My brothers – your great uncles Patrick and Flynn, my sister Bridgette and of course, me. My great-grandmother, Cathleen, had _nine_ brothers and sisters, and she was the youngest of all of them." Laura's eye widened. She couldn't even imagine having nine brothers and sisters when sometimes having one sister seemed like one sibling too many, especially when Frances was trying to boss her around.

"She must have had a really big house!" Laura reasoned.

"Actually," Olivia drew out the word, "Most families lived in modest homes, much smaller than your Mother and Daddy's," she corrected. "Unlike you and Frances, children didn't have their own rooms, and three or four children would sleep in a single bed." Laura shook her head, emphatically, the idea of sharing a room and _a bed_ with Frances objectionable.

"I wouldn't like that," she stated, firmly.

"I imagine there are many things you wouldn't like," her grandmother laughed. "An older brother or sister would pass down their old clothes, shoes and toys to a younger sister and brother, so when you were the tenth child – like my great-grandmother was – by the time a dress was passed down to her, four older sisters had already worn it." Laura crinkled her nose at the thought of having to wear Frances's old clothes. Frances dressed so… girly… all the time. Why she didn't own a single pair of shorts at all, and one couldn't very well go around riding their bike in a skirt or dress!

"I wouldn't like that," she repeated.

"Neither did your great-grandmother, who was quite spirited, just like you," Olivia shared, giving Laura another hug. "So for years, before she married and many after, she scrimped and saved until she had enough to buy this ring." She picked up the ring and placed it in Laura's hand. "It is to be given to the youngest daughter on her eighteenth birthday. My great-grandmother gave this ring to my grandmother, my grandmother to my mother, then my mother to me. And, as my great-grandmother requested, if there are no girls born into a generation then the ring is to be passed on to the youngest daughter of the youngest son. Do you know what that means?" Laura's brows knitted together and she considered the question as seriously as any six-year-old could.

"No," she admitted, reluctantly.

"Well, it means unless your Mother and Daddy have another little girl, on your eighteenth birthday _I_ will pass the ring on to _you_!" Laura's widened and she picked she held up the ring to examine it thoroughly.

"It's the most beautiful ring ever," she declared in awe. Olivia laughed again, and hugged her granddaughter tightly a final time before taking the ring back and sliding it back on her finger. "Alright, my girl," She announced, lifting Laura off her lap and setting her on her feet, "I believe I owe someone a quarter! Let's go get my purse…"


	6. February 1963 - 7 years old

_February 1963 – 7 years old_

Laura scampered down the stairs, her still damp curls bouncing with each step. Donned in her nightgown and bathrobe, her mother had instructed her to say goodnight to her father. Bounding into the living room, where her father was reposed in his recliner, she propped an elbow on the armrest and rested her chin in her palm.

"Whatcha watching, Daddy?" Distracted, he turned his head to look at his youngest daughter even as his foot continued to tap along with the music.

" _The Lawrence Welk Show,"_ he replied. Her face fell. It didn't sound very interesting to her.

"Oh," she answered, in a tone that expressed her disappointment then giggled when he suddenly stood up and swooped her up into his arms.

"May I have this dance, Champ?" She wrapped her arms around his neck and smiled wide.

"Like ballet?" She'd begun taking ballet classes the prior spring, and even if it was _for girls_ she found she liked the contradictory nature of the art that combined both discipline of mind and body with the freedom of movement... not that she could have put that into words.

"Not exactly. Some day, when you are much, much older, if you find the right person to be your partner, you'll dance the nights away together," he predicted. "Now, put one hand on my shoulder and your other hand in mine," he directed. She bent to look down at the floor. It looked a long way down in the mind of a seven-year-old, making her clutch at his neck more firmly. "C'mon, Champ. Have I ever dropped you before?" She mulled the thought for a second.

"No," she answered reluctantly

"And I will never let you fall or get hurt, not if I can prevent it. Trust me," he assured. "So, whaddya say?" His smile was one of fatherly pride when, after a bit of thought, Laura's chin tipped upwards with determination, and she lay one small hand on his shoulder while putting the other in his upheld hand.

"Okay, Daddy."

"Now, some people keep it simple." He demonstrated a box step. "And others follow the craze of the day." He demonstrated the fox trot. "And some people dance what they are feeling. Keeping the other person close and dancing slowly," he demonstrated, hugging her closer then taking slow steps, and a gradually turning, "Or…" he bent her over and dipped her, making her giggle, "Have a little fun because they're happy with the one who they're with."

"What are we gonna do?" she wondered.

"When I'm dancing with my favorite girl?" he returned.

Feet moving in time with the beat of a lively piece being played by Welk's orchestra, he danced her around the room, twirling and dipping, until her joyous laughter filled the room, drawing Abigail down the stairs.

"Laura, I thought I told you to say goodnight to your father and then to go straight to your room and get in bed," Abigail frowned with disapproval.

"Daddy and me are dancing!" Laura grinned.

"That's nice, dear. Now, kiss your father goodnight and go get in bed. You know your father enjoys his Saturday evenings to himself." Laura's face fell as Jack set her down on her feet.

"Listen to your mother, Champ," he directed, pressing a kiss on top of her head. He saw her down trodden face and brushed a knuckle beneath her chin, fondly. "Don't look so down. I'm sure we'll do it again enough times that by the time I dance with you at your wedding, we'll be pros." Laura hung her head and sighed while toeing the carpet with a slippered foot.

"Goodnight," she told him reluctantly then trod heavy footed out of the room and up the stairs to her room, wishing fiercely her mother hadn't shown up when she had and wondering if her father was right and they'd dance again.

As it turned out they would dance many more times over the years ahead, each partnering measuring the passage of years: Laura, feet dangling from the floor; Laura on her tiptoes, her arm raised above her head to clasp her father's hand; Laura flatfooted, as the top of her head reached just above his shoulders.

She would dance with him the night of her sweet sixteen, and then the next day, he would be gone…

* * *

 _ **A/N Can you guess which episode this was inspired by?**_


	7. September 1963 - 7 years old

_September 1963 – Seven years old_

Laura crept through the back door and into the kitchen, praying all the while that she'd be able to get to her room before running into her mother. Mother, after all, would have fits given her state: Tufts of her braid had pulled free, and she was pretty sure a twig or leaf or two remained; dirt streaked her face and hands; a trio of scratches on the back of her left hand and another on her right were dotted with blood; and, the knees of her tights were likely ruined. More importantly, she had to get the treasure she had hidden in her satchel upstairs before anyone discovered it. Tiptoeing though the kitchen, she peeked down the hallway that led to the living room and the stairs. When she saw the coast was clear, on silent feet she made it to the bottom of the stairs unseen.

"Laura?"

She froze in her steps.

"Is that you, dear?" Abigail called.

"I'll be right down, Mother," Laura called back to her. "I have to use the bathroom really bad!" She scampered up the stairs as quickly as her legs would allow.

"Change for ballet while you're up there, dear," Abigail hollered the directive.

"Yes, Mother!"

Laura silently cheered. She could hide her tights, wash her face and hands, then brush her hair and Mother might never know! But first…

She closed her bedroom door behind her and climbed up on her bed. Unlatching her satchel, she lifted out the black puff of fur and cradled it against her chest.

On her way home from school, she'd heard mewing from underneath the Moreno's house, only that hadn't made sense since the Moreno's had moved to San Francisco three weeks before and the house was sitting empty as they awaited a buyer for it. So she'd crawled around the house, through the Moreno's evergreen and holly bushes, looking for a way underneath, promising the kitty she was coming to help. When she finally found the opening to the crawl space, rescuing the kitten had been more than a challenge than she'd anticipated as the frightened little thing had hissed, spit and clawed at her as she'd been pulling it out.

But now, the little kitten seemed to realize it was safe, if the way it was purring against her was any indication.

"Laura…"

The sound of her mother's voice, far too close for comfort, sent Laura scrambling from the bed, looking for somewhere, anywhere, to hide her kitten. Out of desperation, she yanked back quilt on her bed, and covered the kitten a split second before her door swung open.

"I forgot your leotard was still in the laundry room," Abigail announced as she walked through the door, holding the pale pink piece of attire. Laura spun around to face her, hoping with all her might that the kitten would remain silent until her mother departed. But, alas, she'd forgotten the state she'd arrived home in until her mother's eyes widened in disbelief. "Laura what have you gotten into now? Look at you! You're filthy! And your tights! They're ruined! Well? What happened?!" Laura stood silent and blinking, unsure what to do. She'd never outright lied to her parents before, but if she told the truth?

"I'm sorry," she told her mother, most sincerely instead. "I didn't mean to get dirty."

"Well, you should be," Abigail retorted, her lips twisted in disapproval. "Money doesn't grow on trees and now we'll have to buy you new tights." She looked Laura over from toe-to-head, her eyes pausing on the scratches on Laura's hand and arm then on a twig protruding from a braid. "Have you been climbing trees with the boys again?"

"No, Mommy," she vowed solemnly. Abigail seemed to find her footing, and sighed, resignedly.

"Well, you'll need a bath now and we'd better take care of those scratches before they get infected. Come along, before we're late for class." Reluctantly, Laura followed her mother and they'd just about made it to the door when…

 _Meow._

Abigail stopped so abruptly that Laura ran into her.

"What was that?" she questioned, spinning around to look back into the room. Her eyes fell on the bed where a small mass squirmed beneath the quilt. "What is that?" Laura tried to dart in front of her mother before she could get to the bed, but to no avail. Ripping back the quilt, Abigail gasped. "Laura Elizabeth Holt, what is this mangy animal doing in my home? You know how I feel about—"

"I saved it," Laura interrupted, squeezing between her mother and the bed, scooping up the precious cargo. "It was stuck under the Moreno's house and I saved it," she repeated.

"A stray?!" Abigail asked, horrified. "Take it outside, right now. You have no idea what diseases that… that… thing might have." She pressed her palms against her cheeks. "And the fleas. Your bed is probably infested with them."

"But it's mine!" Laura protested, eyes filling with tears. "I saved it and I always wanted a kitty!"

"There will be no animals in my home and that's the end of the discussion," Abigail proclaimed with finality. "Now take it downstairs and put it outside. I'll run you a nice bath in the meantime." When Laura remained still, clutching the kitten and eyes puddling over, Abigail plunked a fisted hand on one hip and pointed to the doorway with another. "Now, young lady."

"But I love it," Laura whispered, burying her face in the kitten's long hair. Then added in a plea around the broken-hearted sobs that had begun, "Please. I'll take care of it all by myself. Please let me—"

"When you're all grown up and have a house of your own, you can have as many pets as you like," Abigail replied coolly. "But as long as you're living in my house, there will be no pets. Have I made myself clear? Now, take it outside and then meet me in the bathroom so we can get you ready for dance." The imperiousness of the command, the lack of understanding, saw the little girl's eyes drying, and her chin tilting upwards..

"You're mean!" she accused. "And I don't like it here!"

"Well, that's just too bad, because you'll be living here for a very, very long time," Abigail retorted. "Now, march!" she commanded a final time with another finger pointed out the door. Mutinously, Laura stomped out the door.

* * *

Two-and-a-half hours later, with ballet class long ago missed, Jack arrived home to a frantic Abigail awaiting his arrival on the front porch of the house. Brow furrowed with concern as he took in his wife's pale face and the way she was wringing her hands, he clasped her upper arms in both his hands.

"Abigail, what is it?" he inquired.

"Oh, Jack," she lamented, clutching his arms. "I think Laura's run away." He glanced at his watch. It was after six and the streets were nearly dark. His eyes narrowed on his wife.

"Why do you think that? What happened?" he demanded to know.

"She snuck a cat into the house and I told her to take it outside while I ran her a bath," she explained. "She'd come home filthy from school. Just filthy. Tights ruined, face and hands dirty, scratches on her arm and—"

"When did you see her last?" he cut her off, saving himself the diatribe on how little girls should dress and act like little girls.

"When I sent her outside to get rid of that cat," she fretted. "I've searched everywhere I can think of, I even had Frances ask after her with other children in the neighborhood and no one has seen her." Jack shoved past her towards the front door.

"You've checked everywhere inside? Closets? Under the bed? My den?" he drilled.

"Closets and your den, yes, but I didn't think to look under the beds," she admitted, following him.

"Recheck upstairs," he instructed. "Check _anywhere_ she can squeeze herself into: Under beds, in blanket chests, the armoire, even the bathroom cabinets. I'll take downstairs."

Bedrooms, bathrooms, linen closet, den, living room, coat closet, dining room, sunroom were all thoroughly searched and gave up nothing. Jack had just checked the pantry when a soft mew coming from the direction of the laundry room caught his attention. Swinging open the door, he stepped inside, immediately opening the dryer and sighing when it revealed it was unoccupied. The ironing closet also yielded nothing. Another mew had him taking three long strides in the direction of the rectangular wicker hamper. Throwing open the lid, he startled when a little ball of fur flew out, then heaved a sigh of relief.

"Laura," he breathed, then laughed softly. Sitting up, curled in a ball, she'd shoved a towel under her head to act as a pillow and was fast asleep. If he had to guess, he'd suspect she'd grown bored in her hiding spot, and too stubborn to reveal herself, had chosen to sleep instead. "Abby! I found her. In the laundry room," he yelled. In the hamper, Laura blinked open her eyes then rubbed at them with a pair of fists as she tried to orient herself.

"I found a kitty, Daddy," she informed him drowsily. "I saved it." Leaning over, her clasped her under the arms and lifted her into his arms, her feet dangling over the floor as he hugged her tight.

"You scared us, Champ," he told her, then added more sternly, "Don't you ever do anything like that again!"

"I just wanted to keep my kitty," she murmured.

"We'll talk about it tomorrow," he hushed her.

"Laura?!" Abigail called to her, then pulled her from Jack's arms. Half asleep, forgetting she was angry, Laura wrapped her small legs around her mother's waist and rested her head on Abigail's shoulder. "Thank God," she breathed. "Do you have any idea how scared we were? We'll talk about this in the morning, but right now let's get you in a warm bath and then I'll make you something to eat."

Abigail left the room with her petite daughter in her arms…

The next day, while Laura was at school, Abigail found the kitten a new home. It would be many years down the road before that particular void in Laura was filled.


	8. January 26, 1964 - 8 years old

_January 26, 1964 – Eight years old_

Laura made a wish, closed her eyes and blew out her breath as hard she could, determined to blow out all eight candles on her birthday cake so her birthday wish would come true. Pleased when they all flickered out, she dared to eye the four wrapped packages sitting on the dining room table. Next Saturday she would have a party for her friends to attend, but tonight, on her real birthday, it was about family. Two of those festive packages had been carried in by her father when he'd returned from another business trip that morning and another had arrived in the hands of her grandmother.

Oh, she hoped, she hoped, she _hoped_ , she'd find what she most longed for in one of those three packages, because it wouldn't be found in the package from her mother. Even at her tender age she knew there was no doubt about that.

She politely nibbled at her cake and ice cream, complimenting her mother for the former, as expected from a polite young lady.

"Laura, it's as though I blinked and the baby you were became the big girl you are now just overnight," Olivia Holt, her grandmother commented, earning her a toothy grin.

"What is it you always say, Mom?" Jack tried to recall, then smiled as it came to mind. "Time keeps marching forward no matter how much you'd like it to stop."

"It used to march forward, Jack, now it races," Olivia sighed. "Before you know it, the girls will be grown and gone."

Laura fidgeted in her seat. What was in those packages? Was it there?

"Laura, eat your cake," Abigail reminded. Instead, Laura sat down her fork on her plate and shoved the plate aside.

"I'm full." The cake was yellow, the icing butter cream and the ice cream vanilla. Now, if that icing was chocolate and the ice cream too… well, she'd eat until she couldn't possibly eat another bite, but as it was, she'd eaten enough to be polite, as expected, and not a bite more.

Besides, those presents kept commanding to be opened.

"It sounds like it's time to open some presents," Jack announced, as though reading her mind. Laura's eyes sparkled with anticipation.

"Well, I suppose if she's finished with her cake," Abigail conceded. "Frances, help me clear the table."

"Yes, Mother," Frances dutifully agreed.

One of the big bonuses of a birthday in Laura's opinion was not having to clear the table or help with the dishes. Still, those presents sitting there were just begging to be opened and having to be patient left her fidgeting in her seat. Time racing ahead? It seemed to come to a standstill in her eyes.

"Jack, I remember your eighth birthday. You begged and begged and begged for a slingshot, vowing you'd use it with great care," Olivia reminisced. Jack laughed aloud and shared a conspiratorial wink and a smile with Laura.

"I put a rock through the kitchen window within an hour." Laura's eyes widened.

"Did you get in trouble?" she asked, fascinated. It was hard enough picturing her father as a little boy, let alone a little boy who'd gotten into trouble.

"Well, I didn't get to use that slingshot again for a month," he laughed again. Laura sat up straight in her chair and watched as Abigail returned to sit the presents in front of her.

"Happy birthday, darling," Abigail wished, sincerely, leaning down to place a peck on her daughter's cheek.

"Thank you, Mother," Laura grinned. "Can I open my presents now?"

"May I," Abigail corrected. "And yes, you may."

Eagerly, Laura reached for the first present in the stack: Her mother's gift to her. Ripping the paper off, she knew a moment of dismay when a garment box was revealed. Undoubtedly it was a frilly dress that would come with a command performance that would require her behaving like a well-mannered young lady. Hesitantly she wriggled the top off the box, bewildered when the box revealed its contents.

"The diary is from me," Frances spoke up, proudly. "Mother and Daddy gave me my first diary on my eighth birthday, too." The more Laura thought about it, the more she liked the idea of being able to write down her private thoughts.

"Thank you, Frances. I love it!" She picked up the plastic case with cloth, string and a wood circle in it. She'd seen her mother sewing for hours with one of these, and eventually whatever it was she was making would turn into a pillow or table runner.

"It's never too soon to learn how to embroider, Laura dear," Abigail informed her. "In my opinion, something made by your own hand only makes a home all the warmer." Laura smiled weakly, already dreading the hours of instructions and arguing that lay ahead.

"Thank you, Mother." Pretending to admire the gift for what she felt was an appropriate time – and a sufficient length not to hear a lecture on being ungrateful – Laura set the box aside and reached for the next gift, this one from her grandmother. Shredding the gift wrap, she stared in wonder at the two _Piano for Beginners_ books. Her eyes sparkled with unconcealed joy when she looked at Olivia.

"Piano lessons?" she breathed.

"You've been asking for a while, and I think it's a good time to start," her grandmother confirmed. "Your mother, father and I have already discussed it. I'll pick you up from school on Tuesday and Thursdays. After your homework is done, we'll have a lesson and then your mother will pick you up for ballet and gymnastic class."

"And your mother and I have agreed to buy a piano for you practice on at home," Jack added. "it won't be anywhere close to as fancy as your grandmother's but will still play the same." Laura's eyes widened at the news.

"Really? My own piano?!"

"Well, a piano for the family to enjoy, but yes, yours to use," Jack nodded. Laura slipped down out of her chair and ran to her grandmother to give her a hug.

"Thank you, Grandma."

"You're very welcome."

Laura scrambled back to her seat and considered the two remaining presents. The smaller, thinner box wasn't big enough to hold her longed-for gift, but the larger box was. She reached for the smaller box, unwrapped and opened.

"Tickets to the circus!" she cried out, happily.

"Yep. Next month, just you and me, Champ." Her eyes gleamed with excitement as she reached for the last box and opened it.

Then screeched loudly enough to make Abigail first jump, then frown.

"Laura, mind your manners, please."

"It's a baseball glove and ball! You got it for me, Daddy! You got it!" Scooting out of her chair, she flung herself into his arms. His booming laugh filled the room as he hugged her back, then ruffed her hair.

"I did and there's something else in that box for you."

"There is?" She ran back to her seat, and peered inside, then removed a folded piece of paper. Her mouth rounded into a disbelieving "o". "Little League? I can play Little League?"

"Jack," Abigail addressed him, leveling him with a disapproving look, "You know how I feel about you humoring Laura with this nonsense. She could get hurt and girls can't keep up with boys when it comes to their sports and their games." Laura's head fell forward, and she looked down at her lap, crestfallen.

"Nonsense. Laura can do anything she sets her mind to, can't you Champ?" Laura lifted her head, and nodded, glancing at her mother warily. "Besides, it's already done deal."

"Jack—" Abigail intended to try again.

"Abigail," he said her name sharply, "Let Laura be who she is and stop trying mold her to fit into your ide of what a little girl should be. The matter's settled." Laura held her breath. It wasn't often her father put his proverbial foot down and when he did, her mother normally ceded to him. But there was always that chance she'd challenge him.

"She'd better not get hurt," her mother huffed.

Laura's eyes flew to her father. His wink assured her they'd won.

She, Laura Elizabeth Holt, was going to be a baseball player.


	9. February 22, 1964 - Age 8

_February 22, 1964 – Eight years old_

The sun had barely risen when Laura jumped from her bed. After rooting through her dresser, she tugged on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt. A pair of tube socks and sneakers followed, then she plaited her hair back into two neat braids. Scampering down the back stairwell that led to the kitchen, she set a glass of orange juice on the table and poured herself a bowl of corn flakes. She paused and her brow furrowed in thought. She wanted a banana on her cereal but she wasn't aloud to use a knife without adult supervision. Her face suddenly lit up and she opened the silverware drawer to grab spoon. Using the edge of the spoon, she sliced the banana then poured her milk. She ate with her eye on the clock, watching the second hand tick-tick-tick.

Before he left last night, her father said they'd leave at eight o'clock sharp. Little League tryouts were at nine o'clock and would take about an hour, then there would be an hour of practice with her new team. Afterwards she and her father were going to eat in a restaurant and then? Well, then came the circus!

It was a big, huge day.

By seven-fifty-two, she'd eaten her breakfast, had washed and put way her dishes, and was scampering up the stairs towards her parent's room. Frances's bedroom door was still shut, which wasn't really a surprise since she would sleep until nine or ten on the weekend. It _had_ been odd that her mother wasn't in the kitchen when she went downstairs as Abigail normally insisted on a hot breakfast on weekend mornings, but she supposed it was just her mother's way of showing her disapproval of Jack and Laura's morning plans.

She lifted a fisted hand to knock on the closed door, stopping in the nick of time when her mother's raised voice reached the hallway in which Laura stood.

"I'm not going to 'calm down', Jack! Sneaking into the house at dawn! Do you think I don't know where you were last night or where you really are on those _business trips?!_ " she said the word with disgust. "It's humiliating and I won't have it!"

"Then set us both _free_ , Abby," he pled wearily, his voice an indistinguishable murmur to Laura's ears on the other side of the door. He swung open the door, startling Laura. "Ready to go, Champ?" he asked, forcing a cheerful note into his voice. She nodded her head vigorously as he pulled the door shut behind him.

"Are you and Mother fighting?" she wondered, gnawing at her lip.

"Nothing to worry about," he assured. "Now, do you have everything?" Her brow crinkled as she ran down a mental checklist.

"My glove!" she cried out, racing for her room. Snatching it off her bed, she hurriedly brushed the wrinkles from the bedspread. She didn't want to face another lesson on how to make a proper bed. She promised herself, vehemently, that when she grew up she'd regularly leave her bed unmade for no other reason than just because. "I have everything now, Daddy," she informed him when she joined him back in the hallway, sliding her hand into his. Together they walked to and then down the stairs.

"No," he drew out the word, "I don't think that you do, Champ," he teased as he reached to his back pocket and pulled out what he'd tucked there. 'What's a baseball player without a baseball hat?" Her eyes turned into saucers when she saw the Dodgers logo on the hat.

"For me?" He pretended to reconsider.

"Well, I don't know. Now that I take a closer look, I'm thinking I might keep it." He laughed at the crushed look she gave him. "Or…" he elongated the word again, "I could just wear this one," he suggested, presenting a second, larger hat from beyond his back.

"We both get a hat," she exclaimed, smiling wide again. Grasping her arm to stop her at the front door, he squatted before her, tried the hat on her head, made an adjustment then tugged it down, fitting it snugly over her hair. By the time he stood back up, his hat was on his head as well.

"Now, I think we're ready for a little baseball."

A smile lighting her face, Laura skipped all the way to the car.


	10. March 21, 1964 - 8 years old

_March 21, 1964 – 8 years old_

"Ball four. Take your base," the umpire in blue and gray shouted from behind home plate.

A loud groan of disappointment rose from the crowd in the bleachers as the kids standing on the infield kicked at the dirt with frustration and a child in the outfield shouted…

"Aw, come on!"

The scoreboard changed to reflect Bat Busters 9 and Strikers 7. Bases were loaded and there was only one out. Robby Kraft had just walked his fifth batter in a row and the last two games had been lost in much the same way: His young pitching arm had tired and his throws were tuckering out before they even reached the plate. With a three run lead now trimmed to two and still two outs to go before the game ended, Laura – standing on shortstop – was one of those kids who'd run short of patience.

Climbing down out of the bleachers, Jack Holt walked over to the end of the dugout.

"Paulie, c'mere for a second," he called to the coach. Jack and Paul Evans had gone to high school together, had played on the same championship baseball team. The tall, fit blonde yanked off his cap and swiped at his forehead with a cloth, while ambling towards Jack. He muttered under his breath when another pitch landed in front of home plate.

"Ball!" the ump barked. "1-0."

"Hey, Jack," he greeted, keeping his eyes on the field. "What's up?"

"Put the kid in," Jack nudged.

"Ball! 2-0."

"You're kidding, right? Do you have any idea how much ribbing I'm already getting cuz I put her on short? Nuh-uh."

"She's on short because she's got the best arm on the team and can cover a ton of ground," Jack reminded him.

"Ball! 3-0."

"Look, I've been working with the kid a bit at home. She might not blow one by them… yet… but she'll definitely put it over that plate." Jack nodded his head towards the field. "And she won't roll it across like that."

"Ball four! Take your base!"

Parents in the bleachers erupted again, making their unhappiness known while the kids on the field deflated. They all knew how this was going to turn out.

Paulie muttered a string of heartfelt oaths under his breath as he watched a base runner from the Strikers cross home plate. Bat Busters 9, Strikers 8. One more run meant a draw, which was just about as unpalatable as the loss two more runs crossing that plate would bring.

"Jack, if I put her in, the parents will string me up. I mean, a girl on the mound?"

"They'll have your head if the team takes another loss, guaranteed," Jack pointed out. "What do you have to lose? The way I see it, you put Laura in and win, you're a hero. If you put her in and she doesn't do any better than Robby, you tell the other parents you were making a point to me." Jack finished with a shrug.

"Ball! 1-0."

Paulie's eyes roamed over the players on the field while dabbing the cloth over his forehead. Damned if he did, damned if he didn't in his eyes. His eyes traveled to parents and families in the bleachers, taking in their agitated states, the red-faced men, the women patting hands or a thigh while trying to get them to calm down. His gaze returned to the field, fastened on Robby Kraft, and he prayed like he never had before.

 _Strike, let it be a strike. Strikestrikestrikestrikestrike._

"Ball!" the ump shouted. "2 and 0."

 _Damn._

"Time!" Paulie shouted, then waited for blue to wave his arms before he strode out onto the field, gesturing to the infield to come in for a meeting. In front of the mound, the children gathered around him. Holding his hand out, he waited for Robby to reluctantly drop the ball into his palm.

"Sorry, coach," Robby said, dropping his head and staring at his toes.

"You pitched one heck of a game up until, now, Robby, no apologies necessary," Paulie assured, with a pat on the shoulder. "We're going to change things up a little, try something new. Robby, go to short. Laura, you have the ball." He dropped said ball into her hand, as she stared up at him in disbelief.

"Really?" she asked, hope dancing in her eyes.

"You're gonna put her in, Coach?" Robby piped up.

"She's a girl!" from Aaron Dickson on first base.

"Girls can't pitch!" from Billy Baker at third base.

"Can too!" Laura objected.

"Enough!" Paulie ordered in a firm voice. "This is how it's gonna be. Back to your positions." He watched as all the kids scattered except Robby and Laura.

"You can't do this coach," Robby pleaded. "A girl? Do you know what they guys'll say?"

"Robby, shortstop or bench. Your choice. The decision's been made." Robby looked from coach, to Laura, to the team in the field, to the dugout, then stomped towards shortstop. "Alright kid, let's see whatcha got. We don't need anything fancy. Just put it straight down the middle of the plate and let your field do the work."

"Okay, Coach!"

"Good luck," he said the last resignedly. The crowd in the stands rumbled when the coach left the field and it was evident who he'd turned the ball over to.

"Paulie!" a burly man in his thirties shot to his feet in the stand. "You're taking my kid out? For her?!"

Laura looked from the man to her coach then finally to her father, where she found a reassuring smile and a thumb's up gesture. She drew in a long, deep breath, took her stance, pulled back her arm and delivered the pitch. It sailed high and wide, hitting the backstop.

"Ball! 3-0!"

"Did you see that, Paulie? Did you see that?" Robby's father yelled. "She can't do it. Put my boy back in."

"Why don't you have a seat, Ken," Jack called to the man. "This kid can do anything she puts her mind to!" He looked at Laura, who'd been left fidgeting on the mound after the bad pitch. "Can't you, Champ?"

Laura chewed on her lip, not really quite sure that she could. Her palms were sweaty, her hands shaking and she swore her heart was about to explode out of her chest. She'd heard the parents in the bleachers. She'd seen her teammates' reactions. Coach was literally sweating it out in the dugout.

Her shoulders slumped.

"C'mon, Paulie!" Kraft yelled again. "Look at her. She's about to cry, for Pete's sake!"

Laura's head snapped in his direction. Maybe she could do it… or maybe she couldn't. But she knew one thing for sure: She was no crybaby and no one – _no one_ – would ever intimate that she was. Her chin tipped upwards with stubborn defiance and she eyed home plate. Whether or not she could do it, she wouldn't give up and she would never, ever let them see her cry.

Taking her stance on the mound, she drew ball and glove together then launched the pitch. The opponent at the plate never moved the bat from his shoulder, just watched as the ball sailed in.

"Strike! 3-1!"

Her eyes shot to where her father stood and his look of pride made her face light with an answering smile.

Five pitches later and the game was over. She hadn't been perfect, by any means, throwing the ball wide and low of the mark a pair of times, but what she'd done had been sufficient enough to induce first an infield pop-up and then a ground out to first, leaving the Bat Busters the victors at 9-8.

Laura's clearest memory of that day wasn't of how nervous she'd been taking the mound, of the taunts or even her failures and successes.

The memory she carried with her was how her father had bounded towards her then swooped her up into his arms, and the words he said as he embraced her…

"You can do _anything_ you put your mind to, Champ. Anything."


	11. March 23, 1964 - 8 years old

_March 23, 1964 – 8 years old_

Laura walked through the doors of Mrs. Mahaffey's second grade classroom, waving hello to Melissa and Tammy where they sat together midway back in the room.

When she slipped into her seat, she was scowling. At the beginning of the school year, she'd sat in front of Melissa and next to Tammy. But _she'd_ been moved because the teacher said she talked too much. She could still remember how her face had burned hot in response to the others children's whispers and titters when Mrs. Mahaffey had moved her right in the middle of the school day!

The memory and her humiliation that day was so vivid she would swear she heard people saying her name and laughing – right now!

She spun around in her seat.

She wasn't imagining it!

"She was so scared I thought she was going to pee her pants!" Billy Baker told the kids turned in their seats to listen. Another round of laughter went up.

"Then she started _crying_ ," Robby Kraft picked up with the tale, "And coach took her out—"

Laura leaped from her seat.

"That's a lie, Robby!" she shouted the indictment while marching down the aisle towards the boys.

"Is not!" Robby denied. Furious, she stomped her foot.

"Is too!"

"Laura is a cry baby!" Billy sing-song mocked. To her horror, her eyes began to tingle with threatening tears when Robby joined in on the chant and other children laughed. Red hot anger instantly followed. Tipping up her chin, her lower lip thinned and her eyes scorched the target in front of her.

"Am not! Take it back!"

Robby fell silent at once, but, oh, not Billy Baker. He continued with the chant.

 _Laura is a cry baby. Laura is a cry baby._

"I said take it back, Billy Baker!" she demanded again.

"Whatcha gonna to do if I don't?" he challenged, then with smirk added, "…cry baby."

A small fist shot out. Connected. And Billy, tumbled from his chair to the floor… where he promptly burst into tears. Plunking her fists on her hips, she glared down at the boy.

"You're the cry baby!" she declared.

A smile of satisfaction lit her face when the children around her laughed again… this time at Billy.

The moment of triumph only lasted a few seconds, when suddenly the other students standing nearby scattered and those in their seats turned around and faced the front of the room. Laura's faced scrunched up with dread, not having to turn around to know why they'd lost their audience. A heartbeat later, Mrs. Mahaffey demanded to know…

"What is going on in here!?"

* * *

Laura sat on the side of her bed, head hanging down and legs swinging.

She'd been sitting in her room all day, leaving only to use the bathroom.

It had been a very bad day, in her estimation. First, Billy and Robby, their lies and teasing, then Mrs. Mahaffey's arrival in the classroom, followed by a visit to the principal's office. As if that weren't bad enough, she'd been sent home from school for the day and her father- her father! – had been the one to pick her up from school. The look of disappointment on his face made her tummy queasy, but when he'd said the actual words…

"I'm disappointed in you, Laura…

Her lip had quivered.

He'd sent her to her room to think about what she'd done while he returned to work where he'd considered her punishment. All day long she'd been left sitting there wondering what that punishment would be and her vivid imagination began conjuring up different thoughts. A spanking? Her father had never spanked her before. Confined to her room? He wouldn't take baseball away… would he?

She'd heard her parents arguing…

"First baseball and now fighting in school. This nonsense has to stop, Jack. Laura is a little girl and needs to start behaving like one!"

The idea of spending her days learning to bake, how to iron and going to tea parties left her blinking her eyes to ward off tears throughout the afternoon. She couldn't lose baseball, playing with her friends or riding her bike She just couldn't. She'd do anything!

She fidgeted nervously when she heard her father come home. By the time the door to her bedroom opened she was on the verge of shedding the very tears the boys had falsely accused her of.

"Laura, tomorrow morning you will apologize in front of the class for hitting Billy," Jack decreed. She opened her mouth to protest. She couldn't! She just couldn't. Her lips parted to protest, then quickly clamped shut at his next words. "If you don't, there will be no more baseball for you this year."

Her mind whirled. Her pride or baseball. Baseball or her pride. In the end, the possibility that she might find herself baking cookies instead of flashing the leather made her decision for her.

"Yes, Daddy."

"Tonight, you will sit down and write Mrs. Mahaffey a note of apology for disrupting her classroom and breaking school rules," he continued to her utter horror. Mrs. Mahaffey?! The very teacher who had humiliated her?!

"But—" she began to protest.

"Or there will be no baseball for the rest of the year." Said protest died on her lips.

"Yes, Daddy."

"And you will stay after school the rest of the week helping Mrs. Mahaffey clean her classroom. Do you understand?" Her chin dropped to her chest and she stared forlornly at the floor.

"Yes."

"Your sister brought home the classwork and homework you missed because you were sent home. I'll have her bring it up to you. For the rest of the week, you'll come straight to your room after you get home from school. You may join us for dinner and you may go to baseball practice, but the remainder of time you'll be confined to your room. Understood?"

"Yes."

With a sharp nod of his head, he left her room, closing the door behind him.

As soon as she was alone, she threw herself down on the bed, buried her face in her pillow and let her tears come…


End file.
